


Entwined

by ghee (sabakunoghee)



Category: 1917 (Movie 2019)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Character Study, Death, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-13
Updated: 2020-02-13
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:54:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22688833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sabakunoghee/pseuds/ghee
Summary: And what Schofield meant by holding hand, obviously not involving blood.or,Schofield didn't let go, under any circumstances, he would never let go.
Relationships: Tom Blake/William Schofield
Comments: 12
Kudos: 52





	Entwined

**Author's Note:**

> 'Character study' is just a justification for me to write whatever I want. These boys bugged me more than it should and I really want to hate them if only I could. Still un-betaed. Still die like men.

Schofield always wanted to hold Blake’s hand.

Technically, their hands _touched_ many times, but intimacy was out of context. His palms gripped Blake’s when they introduced themselves to each other. His fingers brushed Blake’s when he handed him his kit, rationed items, or canteen – the physical contacts were innocent and was meant either to help or to support. Literally. Schofield never really, _properly_ , had a chance to do so. The older man repeatedly asked himself, what was so special about Blake’s hand, for he was so desperate to feel them right under his skin.

Perhaps because Blake’s hands were warm. They radiated raw energy as if he was a living heater. Schofield was skinnier than the younger guy – _he sometimes addressed him as a kid, even the puberty hadn’t done hitting him_ – and Blake’s meaty palm squeezed his in a way he found comforting. Such luxury amid the coldness and crudity of warzone.

Blake was naturally a friendly, welcoming person; he talked a lot, he told stories with gestures, which Schofield predicted as the source of his nice body temperature. Schofield learned that Blake came from a decent family, had a mother and a big brother, grew up, spent his childhood on a farm, picking cherries every first of May. Instead of a rifle, it was shovel or hoe he carried. Thus, his hands were softer than most men Schofield knew. Especially when he compared them with his fellow soldiers’.

(Or, possibly, because it was… _Blake_. Simply _Blake._ )

And what Schofield meant by holding hand, obviously _not_ involving blood.

Blake saw the Hun’s blade. It pierced his lower abdominal deep and it _burned_ like hell. He squirmed as the red liquid freed itself from his gaping wound, dampened his jacket, quickly soaked the rolls of bandages Schofield put to stop his bleeding. Even though Blake asked his older friend to tell his mother he wasn’t scared, the fact that he was violently trembling in his embrace, indicated that he was terrified. He didn’t want to die. _Nobody ever did_. And in his helplessness, Blake reached Schofield’s hand, hung on him tight. In his arms, on his lap, Blake found strength and calmness as he realized that his time finally, slowly came.

 _Talk to me,_ he whimpered, _tell me you know the way,_ he pleaded. If there was one thing Blake was afraid of, was the tiny margin of luck Schofield might never have. As for his own life, Blake already gave it all up.

The terror, however, now haunting Schofield.

Blake’s grasp on his hand loosened, and as his dying junior gradually lost his strength, Schofield was in turmoil. He kept his voice steady. His face flat. His embrace tight. Blake was pale white. Schofield didn’t let go. He would _never_ want to let go. It was his turn to take Blake’s, _as he realized that pressing on the open gash was no longer useful,_ folded over the bloody hand beneath his. Schofield laced his fingers, searching for courage since he rapidly lost his toughness, his confidence, it was _him_ who was now frightened. Blake was the one who would leave. Not him. Schofield would, _he had to_ , continue living this war and accomplishing his final mission. Not Blake. His death was quick as it was serene.

The tears spilled down his face and Schofield didn’t bother to wipe. He could feel the muscles of his face trembled as he looked toward the horizon. Blake was no longer there. And the world he knew, collapsed.

But, still, Schofield always wanted to hold Blake’s hand, so he stayed there for the moment.

Until Blake’s warm hand now turned a little bit colder.

**Author's Note:**

> en·twine /ənˈtwīn/  
> wind or twist together; interweave.


End file.
